Give him, God

there are lots of things You can give him, dear God.
Give him blood sucking wars, give him the beauty of stars,
give him the melancholy bristle of wild chrysanthemums in the valley.,
give him a space to smoke up, maybe a quaint quiet alley.
Give him twisted books and the worlds that the authors shook,
give him today, tomorrow and money to borrow.
Give him blotters, give him plotters,
give him friends, give him the sadness that
creeps in when all the love in between beautifully ends.
Give him camphor lights, give him momentary lethal frights,
give him the taste of his mother’s sacred tears,
give him the habit that dazes and amps up his involuntary fears.
Give him anything that you can think of,
give him a life that is split into half and half.
Give him a mask, give him a face
give him gruesome tasks to bring him disgrace.
Give him the right to fly away
and tie his wings for him to stay.
Give him lust to shed his soul apart,
But no! Do not give him a delicate heart.

Kshethra naasham

Pitch black idol with a darkest soul,
his presence so farce. He made people hope.
A son and a mother as close as the link
of flower garland that adorn his slithering being.

Every other day, they worship him blind
with petals of hibiscus and tulsi leaves.
The petals that long for the butterfly’s ripple in the air
when the nectar-lover hovers around the garden they had.

Pebbles and stones that light up the way
to the temple had much more to say,
about the pain they took in inside their ignorant parts
including the quadruple barefoot and their innocent hearts.
But the idol still idle in his cement struck place
forgot it all. What a miserable memory has the lord of grace!

Her bosom gave him the comfort and warmth,
when the coldness of life hit his dimpled smile.
The son and the mother never did anyone harm
and they loved each other with a bond so sterile.
She was all that he ever really had to possess,
and he showed her that with his gentle caress.

A slithering snake, so vile and dark
made the air of the garden silent and damp.
When the blameless mother picked up the last of the petals,
the lord in disguise stuck her ankle deep with a pair of his teeth.
Trembling and sweating with the bleeding dotted holes,
she walked to her son and told him that she loves him forever and more.
As minutes passed and the air of the garden fell
to a stance of nothingness, her body parts began to swell.
Blood oozing right out like the red wild potato roots
that complete their hunger at night and relentlessly soothes.

Charred up idol still basking in the evening breeze,
His abode lit with hundred lamps that sway and exaggerate
His useless presence in the hopeless world of the son who lost his part of life.
Let him take all the shine and let him take all the blame,
yet He was proud and blatant in his altar of throne the foolish made.
One rolled up thread dipped with home-made coconut oil
lit the grave-stricken home and the son was bereft and burning inside.

The son found out that his mother was struck
with the fatal sting when she went out to pluck
the petals of hibiscus flowers that revel in the bloody red ground,
and to the shade of the temple this raucous soul was bound.
But not with petals and tulsi leaves,
but a hammer in hand and a rush to release.

The rage grew stronger as his barefoot pain relieved
as the pebble and stones were glad to believe
that the boy had come to his age and sense
to murder the foolish hopes that the almighty sends.

He prayed to the farce idol one last time
he even grabbed the rope of the ball to exude one last chime.
His intense red eyes deluged with passion and rage
screamed and massacred the idol with a heart and body enraged.
Down to pieces of nothing but random gravels of black
they married the oiled altar like they were together and back.
The perished body and the lifeless pieces of idol
made the bereaved life assume that the purpose is done.
Now, his mother and the God are in the gates of hell
to tell stories of heaven that the foolish forgot to tell.

 

Collective consciousness

Spinning towards the questions of consciousness,
our doubts grew older and bitter.
Where do we stand and where did it begin?
A null and blunt response was always in our hands.
If God was there and He did it all,
Why is He distant and why doesn’t He talk?
Lights have begun to show their dread.
There are now holes which can even pull them to death.
Wars and famine feeding us all,
with no more hearts to refill or call.
Flowers and candles to respect the past
made no sense to Him at all.
Tonnes of questions brewed in His minds,
for which answers are twisted and fairly untwained.
His gasp of wondrous doubts too grow,
and He is gripping His petite knowledge too.
Thus, these doubts that linger over our heads
and over His orb makes Him a part and all of Us.